Ellen Chauvin | Soaked & Sprouting

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Shoots of Hope Sprouting from Ashes

December 8, 2022 by Ellen 4 Comments

The sugarcane fields are bare and burnt. Excess cane leaves, consumed by the fire that clears the chaff and waste, are a heap of ashes.  Rows and rows of blackened, fallen stalks scream “No hope! No hope!” They burned, consumed by flames, with no expectation of life or usefulness again. The harvest is over.

Ah, but in a day or two, tiny shoots of green are sprouting up, ready to grow sweet cane for next season’s harvest. 

How can that be? Only ashes remained of the cane. But deep in the ground, below the top soil, a root ball survived. The roots are still alive and growing, watered by the condensation from the heat above. A remnant of the former grand stalks of cane, and from that root, new cane sprouts, bringing hope of an abundant harvest.

The Jewish people seemed to be in a hopeless situation. God had promised that the throne of David would be established forever (2 Samuel 7:12-13, 16). Unfortunately, the kings from the line of David turned from God, and God’s people followed them. Their kingdoms fell, their families fell apart, they are taken into exile. The family tree burned to a nub of charred ash. 

From exile, they came back home to rebuild their country and their temple.  In time, they came under the rule of the Romans. But who remained in the Davidic line to be their king? The Israelites were expecting a military or political savior to deliver them from Roman rule and oppression. Who would this man be? Who would save them?

“Then a shoot will grow from the stump of Jesse, and a branch from his roots will bear fruit.”  Isaiah 11:1 CSB

Who could have imagined that a shoot would grow, green and tall to deliver the Jewish people? Who knew that the Savior would be a child? Who knew this child would be the root promised years ago. 

God knew. He had promised, and His promises always prevail. God promised a root would grow. A branch would bear fruit. The people had hope.  A remnant left, a shoot sprouting up from the stump of a life that seems as if it has gone up in flames. 

  “And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall name Him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High; and the Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David and He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and His kingdom will have no end.” Luke 1:31-33 NASB

Hope was born in a manger those many years ago. A green shoot of life rising from the ashes. Jesus is His name. Emmanuel, God with us.

Have your Christmas dreams have gone up in smoke, due to circumstances beyond your control? When the marriage fractures or you lose your job, things seem hopeless.  When loved ones die, when lives are destroyed by fires of affliction, things seem hopeless. But remember: underneath the burning fields, the roots of your life are watered. Soon a small green shoot will appear. 

Hope. 

Jesus.

There is always hope, when Jesus is your Savior. 

 “I, Jesus, have sent My angel to testify to you these things for the churches. I am the root and the descendant of David, the bright morning star.” Revelation 22:16 NASB

When you look back at the fires you’ve walked through, seeing only smoke and ashes, remember to search for that tiny stump that refuses to die. The root of Jesse – hope and salvation of the world. The sprout of hope that is Jesus, the bright morning star of a new day dawning. A spot of green in all the black and brown rubble. 

Hope.

Jesus.

O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free thine own from Satan’s tyranny;

From depths of hell Thy people save, and give them victory o’er the grave.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

 

Until next time,

 

 

 

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Hope of Heaven in the Midst of Grief on Earth

March 4, 2021 by Ellen 4 Comments

Surely this year will start off better than last year ended. That was my hope as January rolled around. Sadly, things just didn’t work out the way I hoped. It seems as if my family would be walking through another season of grief. Hard, gut wrenching grief.

“…that you may not grieve as others who have no hope…” 1 Thessalonians 4:13b (ESV)

Honestly, I’d like to have a talk with the apostle Paul about this verse. We don’t grieve as unbelievers? Really?

“Excuse me, Mr. Apostle Paul, but I disagree with this scripture! Cause let me tell you, I can ugly cry with the best of those with no hope. I snot cry and wail in pain because it hurts that my loved one is no longer here. I can’t talk to them, have dinner with them, I can’t hug or touch them. Not only that, tears run from my eyes, snot pours from my nose and spit drips out of my gaping mouth. Yeah, I grieve. Really ugly grief. So, help me with this verse, please Mr. Apostle Paul!”

Physically, I DO grieve as those without hope. Spiritually, the hope I have should make my grief more bearable. After all, my hope as a believer is in a resurrected body and eternal life and heaven. My hope is that one day I will see my loved ones again. They will be part of the great cloud of witnesses that I hope will greet me when I walk through heaven’s gates. But there’s one thing:

It’s so hard to wrap my brain around eternal life when I am grieving here on earth. 

My hope is in heaven. I know this earth is not my home. I know this. But I struggle to imagine the reality of heaven. I know it has streets of gold (Revelation 21:21), but I know nothing about being there with my loved ones. I cannot visualize this (and I am a visual person!).

More grief grips my heart when reality sets in.  Those I’ve loved are no longer here with me. I’m left behind without them.  They are home, safe and sound, like after a long trip. They can exhale and rest in eternal peace; all of us here on earth are still traveling.  They are worshipping at the feet of Jesus; we are merely playing our worship music. We’re not jealous of them. Not exactly. We’re just longing to be home with them.

One commentary I read explained it this way: We have hope of spending eternity with Jesus. Instead of thinking about heaven with all my loved ones, I need to focus on life with Jesus. I need to change my perspective. Again, though, it’s hard to wrap my brain around a glorious future with Jesus. What does that even look like? My eyes are cloudy from the tears of my grief. My perspective is cloudy. 

I believe, but I can’t see.

With sorrow after sorrow piled high, the thought of eternal life with Jesus doesn’t console me like it should. It doesn’t fill the hole left in my heart. 

Something’s missing…

(Join me next week, as I continue pondering the hope we have.)

Grace be with you,

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